


Saltwater and Sage

by Sheffield



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheffield/pseuds/Sheffield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is under a geas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saltwater and Sage

A Year Ago

"Her name is Professor Ramsden and she'll be here for eight months. Eight months!" Jim Ellison wasn't really listening to his Guide's enthusiasm, more interested in watching Sandburg's hands dance, as if the wrists had lives of their own and the fingers were the exotic dancers which swayed to the rhythm of the speech.

"Earth to Jim? Jim?"  
"I'm listening. Professor. Big-wig. Coming here. Table leg."  
"Jim! She's, like, fifty seven or something. Weighs three hundred pounds, not including the moustache. It's her brain I'm interested in. She's written more anthropological journal articles than anyone else in the US and she is the world expert on Siberian shamanism. She's doing some research on a new book on curses."  
"Ooh! Exciting! Just what the world needs."  
Blair laughed.  
"Sarcasm is so unbecoming on you but, yeah, well… it IS a big deal. It's like, I don't know… Wyatt Earp or someone was coming to the bullpen."  
It was Jim's turn to laugh.  
"Wyatt Earp?"  
"Famous lawman."  
"You were reaching for 'famous lawman' and the best you could come up with was Wyatt Earp?"  
A cushion was hurled. And hurled back. It was time for the Jags game anyway, and while there was popcorn and beer, who wanted to talk about Heroes of Anthropology anyway?

 

Last week

"Detective Ellison, I would remind you that you are still on oath."  
"Yes ma'am?"  
"We have testimony from Mr Sandburg which suggests you are under some kind of duress. Is that in fact the case?"  
"No, ma'am."  
"You are here of your own free will?"  
"Yes, ma'am."  
"Can you account for Mr Sandburg's belief that you are being coerced in some fashion, detective?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."  
Laughter.  
"Nevertheless, detective, Mr Sandburg theorises that, at our last meeting, you were tapping the table in morse code. He has, in fact, produced in court a transcript of these alleged tapping noises with an expert testimony which translates them as 'help me help me'. . . Well, Detective?"  
"Ma'am?"  
"Is there any comment you would like to make in answer to that allegation?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."

 

A year ago

"Mr Sandburg? Could I have a word with you?"  
"Hey, Professor, that was an awesome lecture. The material you had on the Touareg, just mind-blowing…"  
"A private word? Please?"  
Blair followed Professor Ramsden into the office – the nice, with-a-window-and-even-a-view office that they'd loaned her for the duration – and sat down in the visitor chair, looking enviously at the Mongolian yurt fabrics hanging from the right hand wall.

"Mr Sandburg. I wanted to ask you a question. How did you come to despise the person who gave you the way of the shaman so much?"

Blair sat back in his chair, for once in his life lost for speech.

"He touched you here… and here…" Professor Ramsden put her hand on Blair's shoulder and wrist, the touch burning like a brand, burning exactly where Inchacha had clutched at him, clutched him with a wiry dying hand, muttering incomprehensible phrases all the while.

"How did you know?"

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes narrowed, and then seemed to come to a decision. She leaned abruptly sideways and disappeared from view behind the desk, and then reappeared with a dusty piece of hide in her hand.

"Here," she said. "I was privileged to spend a year with an actual, practicing shaman – I obviously can't tell you where. And this is, if you like, my diploma."  
"He trained you?"  
"For an entire year. I can't tell you about much of it, because I was asked to keep the details confidential and of course I respect that confidence. But it means I recognise the real thing when I come across it. And you have – or you are, I should say – the real thing. Why are you in denial?"

 

Last week

"Moving on… Detective Ellison, I have some questions which are going to be a little… uncomfortable for us all, but I want you to bear with me."  
"Ma'am."  
"The court has heard testimony, Detective, that visitors to the house you share with Professor Ramsden have come away under the impression that you were being… coerced in some way?"  
"Ma'am?"  
"Specifically, Detective, that you were wearing some kind of… leash and collar arrangement?"  
"Ma'am."  
"Is that true, Detective? Have you, in fact, allowed yourself to be leashed and collared?"  
"It was in private, between consenting adults, and therefore no-one else's business."  
"But, yes? Is that your answer?"  
"Yes ma'am."  
"And consenting? Your testimony is still that you entered into this arrangement of your own free will?"  
"Yes ma'am."  
"In spite of Mr Sandburg's testimony that you are under some kind of compulsion? A… what did he call it? A geas?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."

 

A Year Ago

"I can't stress it too much, Blair. You're positively dangerous, to yourself, and to your ak-the-fin-ron, so long as you have the power but not the training to make use of it."  
"Excuse me, my … what?"  
"Ak-the-fin-ron. Your 'long-sighted deer-smeller' would be one translation. Your… watchman. Guardian. Vigilator."  
"Sentinel, is the term Sir Richard Burton – the explorer, not the actor – uses. It was the subject of my master's thesis but I never found an actual…"  
"Oh Blair, don't lie to a shaman! Of course you have an ak-the-fin-ron. Why, I can see the half-made bond between you, as clearly as if it were a piece of ragged string. And do you think I haven't noticed how it tightens up when your spectacular roommate is in the vicinity?"

"Half made? There's nothing 'half made' about the bond Jim and I share…"

"Didn't I tell you, never lie to a shaman? You have obviously formed some kind of connection with the detective, but not actually forged the kind of bond I've seen before in my studies. I spent several months with a sentinel/shaman pairing in Siberia in 98 and before that with a different pairing in West Africa in 93. Your connection to the sentinel is supposed to be strong and clear, so that he can understand your thought processes and your connection to the tribe, and so that you, as well, can ground him and connect him with the people he protects. What you have is worse than useless; you're preventing him from forming a true sentinel/shaman bond, but the connection that you DO have isn't the kind that he needs."

Coming from someone whose reputation he respected so much, this was a devastating critique.

"Let me demonstrate, if you will. You are connected to your sentinel, so if you are incapacitated, he will be incapacitated. But the connection isn't fully functional, so you won't be able to use any of his abilities to compensate if your own are unavailable. Close your eyes."  
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes.  
There was the sound of a striking match, the smell of smoke which quickly turned to the smell of sage, small sounds of movement, feelings of air on his skin. Smudge sticks, he concluded, relaxing a little.

She began to mutter, chant a little, under her breath, and he started to feel… something. Something strange. Like he was being pulled…

… like something was being pulled, from his belly button. Like something was reaching inside of his abdomen and pulling out his guts through his belly button and dragging him, pulling, tugging…

He gasped and opened his eyes, involuntarily reaching for his midriff, as if he could shove his guts back inside himself and walk away.

He caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of something golden and sparkling, leading from his belly button off into the smoke of the smudgesticks, until she muttered something and made another pass, and it was gone.

She was smiling.

"You see, Blair?"

***

Ten months ago

"I don't know, Chief…"  
"It makes sense, Jim, don't you see? There's a sort of half-assed connection between us, and while it's there you can't form a proper connection with anyone else, but you aren't forming a proper connection with me either!"  
"So you want us to do this?"  
There was something wrong about this whole deal, Jim could feel it in his water. But Sandburg had worn him down, over and over. The lame connection had to be cut, so that they could forge a proper connection that worked.

"Hey, Jim, it's only some sage, right?"

He didn't like the idea of letting someone else in, but this Professor Ramsden had his partner so snowed…

"Jim? Come on, Professor Ramsden is a world authority on shamen."

But if it would make Blair happy…

"Against my better judgement, chief."

***

Last week

"Your honour, I'd like to ask Detective Ellison a series of questions which may seem a little unusual but I'd be extremely grateful for your indulgence. There are eight questions only and I believe it will become obvious afterwards why I'm asking them but I will, of course, fully explain my thinking if the results are not self evident. With your indulgence? Thank you. Detective Ellison, would you please tell us why Mr Sandburg believes you are under duress?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."  
"I see. Thank you. And I understand that, when you and he were room mates, you used to hold poker games for the rest of your colleagues in Major Crimes and that Mr Sandburg was a frequent winner. Do you know why that would be?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."  
"Uh huh. Detective Ellison, why does Mr Sandburg go to Rainier University?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."  
"And what do you think of Mr Sandburg?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."  
"Where do you live?"  
"With Professor Ramsden. We hope to be married in the New Year."  
"And where did you live before you moved in with Professor Ramsden?"  
"With Mr Sandburg, at my apartment on Prospect."  
"Why did you move out?"  
"Because Professor Ramsden and I are in love – where are you going with this?"  
"I'll ask the questions, Detective. Why do you no longer live with Mr Sandburg, please?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."  
"Thank you. Detective Ellison, I put it to you that you are under the mental influence of someone who has prevented you in some way from articulating your thoughts, so that you are able to answer questions in the way you have been programmed and give us this frankly incredible story that you have moved out of your apartment to become some kind of sex slave to a sixty year old academic, but you are not allowed – not ABLE – to give us any opinion on Mr Sandburg other than that pre-ordained phrase. Will you please tell me some other thought you have about Mr Sandburg?"  
"Mr Sandburg has an… active imagination."

***  
Eight months ago

"Simon! Thank you for coming. Thank you SO much. I … well, I wasn't sure you would, to be honest."  
Simon scowled but said nothing, all through them unlocking the cell and processing Sandburg out, giving him back his backpack and coat. It was only when they were out of the police station, in Simon's car and headed out… well, he wasn't quite sure where they were headed, to be honest…. When Simon said gently, "Sandburg. You're afraid of heights but you jumped out of an airplane to come and rescue me and my son. That earns you a little face time in my book. What happened?"  
"I went to see him, Simon. I know, I know, but I couldn't let it end like that. I'm sorry."  
"Sandburg, Jim's already taken out a restraining order: what were you thinking? He had you arrested?"  
"She did."

Simon said nothing.

"Simon?"  
"Sandburg?"  
"Are you going to let me explain now?"  
"I'm not going to like the explanation, am I?"  
"Well… no. No, you aren't."

Another silence.

"Go on. Get it over with."  
"You know she's an expert in shamanism?"  
"A Doctor of witch-doctors? Yes, I recall the subject coming up in conversation a few times."  
"And you know there's a kind of a mystical side to the Sentinel thing? I know you hate it when spooky stuff comes up, but you know it's there."  
"I know. Let's just carry on as if I believed it. Go on, let me hear the rest, ok?"  
"Simon… she snowed me. She told me that the connection Jim and I have… had… was hurting him. That we needed to be connected, psychically connected, as Sentinel and Shaman, but that what we had was… half formed. We were supposed to do this ceremony. Make the bond between us real… but first of all we had to cut the old cord, get rid of the half-formed thing that was there already."

"Let me guess. She wasn't interested in the "making" part, just in the "cutting the cord" part?"

"There was a drug in the ritual drink she gave me, heavily disguised with sage so that Jim couldn't smell it out in advance. It was something that paralysed me, Simon – it was hell. I could see and hear it all, but I couldn't move a muscle. Couldn't speak, couldn't DO anything to… intervene. Couldn't do… anything."

"But Jim was OK?"  
"Physically. You've seen him, Simon. You must have noticed. Everyone has. He looks fine, sort of, but he doesn't sound like himself, or act like himself…"  
"Yeah… You understand how crazy all this is going to sound?"  
"Is going to…?"  
"To the others. Where did you think we were going? Poker night's at my place, Sandburg. Everyone will be there, except Jim of course. You're staying over, by the way, till we get this thing sorted out."

…

Six months ago

"James, darling, would you do something for me?"  
"Of course."  
"Put your collar on like a good boy, please… That's right. Is it locked?"  
"Yes."  
"And is the chain still secure?"  
"I think so: there aren't any cracks I can see in the wall where it's anchored. Same with the other one."  
"That's good. Put the shackles on, then, please. Good boy. Now then, are you all secure? I'm going to lock the cage door now and I need you to tell me if there are any weaknesses in your security."  
"No; nothing I can see."  
"Good. All right then, let's get you settled down for the night. Cuffs first, please; just the right hand as usual."

She was careful to keep an arms length distance from the cage in any event. But it was satisfying, all the same. Her experiment was working well: all the evidence was showing that lifting the geas and allowing the subject some free will each day was maintaining both his strength and the strength of the curse. It took some effort to keep him contained while he had freewill, naturally, but letting him devise his own restraints when he was under geas meant it hadn't been as hard as she'd suspected. A collar locked around his neck and chained to the wall. Metal shackles on his feet and chained to the opposite wall. A cage that meant that, even if he broke one or other chain he would still be contained. And then, the part she most enjoyed, where she made him put on his own gag and blindfold before he cuffed his own hands behind his back.

"Good boy! All right then, in a moment I'm going to say the trigger word and, when I do, you will be released from the geas for eight hours. I want you to sleep some of the time, and I want you to snap back under if someone comes into the room who isn't me, or if you get outside of the cage. Ready?"

He grunted and nodded.

She said the Word. And left, grinning to herself at the sounds of frantic struggle coming from the room behind her.

…

Four months ago

"Blair! Come on!"  
"I can't leave him, Joel. It's got to be something I'm doing wrong… I just have to try it again."  
"Sandburg! Listen to me! There's only so much Rhonda and the others can do to delay them; Ramsden has reported it as a kidnap and half of the fifth precinct is going to break down that door in about thirty seconds so we have to live to fight another day and just RUN."

He'd tried plain salt water and a sage smudge stick; in the bullpen, passing off the saltwater spillage as an accident and then enduring the contempt in Jim's face when he lit up the sage. Jim had let him finish the chant, then doused the smudge stick in Joel's cup of coffee and sneered. The restraining order had been in place an hour later and Blair was banned from the precinct, the university and the brownstone where Jim and Ramsden now lived.

So with a little help from the rest of the bullpen and some active participation from the newly retired Joel, Jim had been lured to a warehouse by Pier twelve. They'd watched on CCTV until Jim stepped onto the shaky piece of flooring they'd worked on all night, and fallen sweetly into an old elevator shaft that they'd spent careful hours filling up with seawater to about five feet – enough to break Jim's fall and make sure the "saltwater" part was covered, but too deep for him to climb out of without help or a rope. And then Blair had chanted, again, burning another sage smudge stick while Jim's voice floated up the shaft bellowing threats and obscenities.

In the end, Joel simply lifted Blair off his feet and carried him out to the car and they rendezvoused at Simon's, as they had done once a week since that terrible night when they'd broken in to Ramsden's to rescue Jim from his chains only to have him turn on them and have them all arrested for b&e. He'd been struggling to escape, they all swore, only seconds before, but the moment they entered the room he snapped back into the sneering sidekick Ramsden had been wearing on her arm all summer.

They'd been arrested, and there were restraining orders on Megan, Brown and Rafe now as well as Joel. They'd managed to keep Simon out of it, just, so they had some access via him and Rhonda.

"I don't know what to do, Simon. Saltwater and sage. That's what it said. The piece of hide she showed me had the geas, the curse itself, on it, plain as day." Well, plain to someone who spent a solid thirty six hours in the library researching the languages used by Siberian shamen and then another fifty eight dollars making calls to Moscow, Omsk, Tomsk, Novosibirsk, Altai State University and somewhere that sounded like Barn-owl to check his findings.

"Well either the information on the hide isn't accurate, or else there's something you're missing. You'll get it, Sandburg. Third time's a charm."

But they were all due in court. Distinguished visiting Professor Ramsden wasn't inclined to drop the charges against them for violating the restraining order, breaking and entering and harassment. And Jim was going to go through with it, appearing at her side and following up on the charges of kidnapping and reckless endangerment.

"We're going to go to jail, Simon."

And then there will be no-one to help Jim, he didn't say. But they were all convinced of it, now, even Jim's father and brother. Convinced but powerless. Because the law doesn't recognise shamanism, or curses, or geas…

… but it does recognise mental illness.

…

Last week

"Silence in court! I will have silence! Thank you. Now then. Unusual as this request may be, I'm going to get to the bottom of this behaviour. I'm therefore acceding to the defence's request that Detective Ellison undergo psychological evaluation, and committing him to Conover for twenty four hours."

Uproar.

…

This morning

"Well, Sandburg, you really take the biscuit. I fought it off for a week but my solicitor advised me to give in to the court in the end. So here I am, twenty two hours into my charming visit to the loony bin and you, the police department, my father, my family, can all take a hike. I'm away from Patricia but I'm still the same, still in love with Patricia, and you can just crawl back into your hole and understand you've lost. I'll be out of here in two hours and, tomorrow, you're going to jail."  
"Jim, I know you're in there somewhere, and I know you must hate the things she's making you say. But I haven't given up – I won't give up. You know that."  
"Stupid faggot kike."  
"I know it must be terrible, not to have the power over your own body. And the morse code was brilliant. I'm just sorry I haven't got there yet. I'll figure it out in the end, I promise."  
"Jumped up wannabe. Hippy fag."  
"God, Jim, I'm so sorry…"

But something in Sandburg was broken, listening to Jim pouring out the same stream of hatred and lies, and he watched, helpless, as a tear dripped off the end of his nose onto the papers in front of him.

…and then he got it.

And then he was reaching out, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and then clutching Jim's arm with a grip like death as he held on and made sure he transferred the saltwater tears onto Jim's skin. Jim made a noise like breaking glass and Blair rooted in the depths of his bag for the smudge stick, for the bag of herbs, for *anything*, anything with sage…

He pressed the sage leaf gently onto Jim's hand, on the spot moistened with tears.

And watched his friend fall to the ground as if he'd been poleaxed…

…and then get up, whole, and ready to kill Professor Ramsden and anyone who got between him and her neck.

…

Epilog

He didn't, of course.

But he withdrew the charges against the rest of his friends, and helped persuade the judge that – while he didn't have enough evidence to name any particular individual as the culprit – he had been in covert operations in his time in the service and there had been mind control experiments, the residue of which might have influenced his bizarre behaviour of the past few months.

Because there was no sign of Professor Ramsden when they reached her house.

No trace of her having gone through any airport or left the country by any other means.

And so she was gone.

Wasn't she…


End file.
